Hand in Hand
by nachalainne
Summary: It isn't that Dean doesn't like Quidditch; football is just better. As such, he tries to teach his best mate, Seamus, a few rules of the game.


It wasn't that he didn't like Quidditch. It was entertaining, of course, and he supported the Gryffindor house team with all the fury and gusto of a death metal band duelling a garbage disposal. There was just something about Quidditch that had never lit Dean's fire - not the way football did.

Perhaps it had something to do with his non-magical upbringing. Unlike many of his classmates, Dean was a muggleborn - the offspring of two thoroughly non-magic parents who only knew about non-magical things and raised him to be a non-magical child. When his letter had arrived the summer before first year, he'd thought someone was taking the mickey in a very dull way-that was, until a very short man with a white beard and a magic wand turned up on his step to explain.

Flitwick had made his prize football-signed by the entire West Ham team, mind you-float around the room while trumpetting the Marseillaise. Dean hadn't understood the connection then-hell, he still didn't-but the floating football was evidence enough of what lay ahead of him.

As if magical classes and a magical school weren't impossible enough - his dorm-mates had introduced him to a sport played on broomsticks, with four balls and too few players for his liking. He'd always though the rules of football were beautifully complex, but Quidditch-there were more than seven hundred ways of committing a foul in Quidditch, and it was entirely possible to do all of them in one game because they could last for weeks on end of the players were bad enough.

Or was it good enough?

He wasn't sure. And at that point in his life, he honestly wasn't sure he cared. Erasing everything he thought he knew about the world and replacing it with new, utterly uncharted information was much more difficult than Flitwick had let on. Of course, he wasn't the only one with that problem - Harry came from a muggle family too, but he had his own issues to deal with, none of which concerned Dean.

Football was his comfort zone. Well, football and Seamus Finngean-the two went pretty much hand in hand at that point. Seamus and football, that is, not Dean and Seamus. Dean didn't go hand in hand with anyone. Of course, neither did Seamus. Not that Dean hadn't noticed.

Seamus was only half-muggle. Or was it half-wizard? He still hadn't worked out the niceties of wizarding terms and which were proper. He'd just taken to blundering through until someone corrected him. Either way, his best mate was half and half -which meant he understood Dean's references when he mentioned the Tube (Neville had been confused for the better part of four months when he'd attempted to explain the London Underground), and could explain why a certain, very round species of small bird known as a "Snidget" was critically endangered.

That morning Dean was taking advantage of his best mate's multicultural background and hauling him out to the Quidditch Pitch, even though Quidditch was the last sport Dean intended to play. He was in the process of teaching Seamus how to play football, and for that he needed a wide, flat field.

"So, as long as my toes are still touchin' the ground, it counts?"

Dean and Ron got into an argument about once a day about how simple their respective sports were; Seamus thought they were both mad.

"Exactly. So I could do this-" Dean lifted the football he'd brought along high over his head and pretended to launch it ahead of them onto the field. "See how my toes are still down?" One foot remained firmly on the ground while the toes of the other barely scraped the grass. "That's what counts."

"Right," Seamus answered, nodding his head even though it made about as much sense as Hermione's instructions for making a Forgetfulness Potion. Dean didn't seem to notice.

"So we'll just practise passing, and maybe some dribbling today. How's that?" Dean's eagerness to do something he was familiar and comfortable with was nearly tangible.

He didn't miss the blank look on Seamus's face that time.

"I'll kick the ball to you. You kick it back to me."

"Yep, sounds grand."

As much as he would have liked for his best mate to show more interest in his favourite game, Dean supposed that 'grand' would have to suffice for the present. "Alright," he started. "Now back up a bit." He took several steps backwards as he spoke, mirroring Seamus's shuffling retreat.

"Good. Now remember, kick with the side of your foot, not the top bit. Right?" Dropping the ball in front of him, he eyed the shot briefly. Was it worth it to scare the trousers off his mate by aiming a high, hard one for his face?

Always.

"Ready?" He asked. No harm in giving the poor Irishman fair warning.

Some distance away, Seamus shouted back. "Just kick it already! Jesus." Dean could be such a mother sometimes.

With the slightly wicked grin of one hellbent on friendly mischief, Dean ran forward, foot connecting solidly with the ball, which rocketed away. Seamus's eyes hardly had time to widen before the entire span of his vision was wiped out by the oncoming blur. The force of the blow knocked him clean off his feet, and if he had to hazard a guess, he was fairly certain his nose was broken.

Horrified with himself, Dean sprinted over to his fallen comrade. "Oh God, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to kick it that hard!" Considering Seamus's temper. a soft lie was better than the truth.

Seamus answered-as many Irishmen do in situations of discomfort-with great dignity. "Jesus Christ! What the feck was that about? Shite, am I bleeding?" He reached up and gingerly prodded his nose. It wasn't broken; he felt no soreness near the bone-just a dull ache that was absolutely going to end in a headache.

"Mate, I'm sorry. I thought- …why the hell didn't you duck?"

"Duck? I could have bone splinters in my brain and you want to know why I didn't duck?" Bone splinters were no joke - his mother had sent a letter with a newspaper clipping about the hazards of Quidditch.

Dean blinked. "About- … what?"

"Bone. Splinters." Seamus repeated himself, each word dripping off his tongue with that fine Irish lilt of his. But words weren't the only thing dripping from his mouth.

"Uhh, Seamus..."

"What?" There was a strange, coppery taste in his mouth now.

Kneeling next to him, Dean bunched up the bottom of his shirt and carefully dabbed at the line of blood trailing from Seamus's lip. "Sorry, mate..."

Seamus pulled back quickly, running his fingers over his mouth. He could already feel his lip beginning to swell, and the hem of Dean's shirt was stained red. Seamus grudgingly accepted his apology with a long string of expletives.

"I'm never playing football with you again."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, you will."

"Oh, why's that?" 

Reaching out, Dean lifted Seamus's chin. It wasn't a serious injury, but he felt obliged to look after his friend anyway-it had been his fault, after all.

"Because," Dean answered. "You can't play football with Neville."

Seamus grimaced. "True."

"Or Ron and Harry." Dean cleaned the blood away carefully, doing his best not to cause his friend any more pain.

"Not that they'd want to."

"So you're stuck with me."

Seamus looked up at him, Irish eyes smiling, despite the lopsided and puffy frown on his face. "And what if I don't want play football at all, nevermind with or without you."

Dean met his gaze, and held it. "...because you do, mate." Leaning in, he very gently placed a light kiss on the unbruised corner of Seamus's mouth.

Seamus held his breath for a moment.

"Alright...maybe I do."


End file.
